Thursday

That’s how many years it’s been since I was fifteen years old. October 2, 1976. My own personal #metoo moment, the details of which don’t need to be picked through here. I’ve written about it once before, a very short chapter in a very short book, with some of the specifics changed because the truth wouldn’t worm out of my brain and onto paper. The ugliness of it wouldn't come out.

It still won’t. And please don’t ask me to.

Right now, on a dozen TV stations I am not watching—because the stress of it is too much, because half a minute of it made me so anxious I wanted to punch the TV—a woman is baring her pain for the world to see. Christine Blasey Ford is sitting in front of a massive panel made up of mostly white men and she’s trying to get them to listen, and to take seriously something far too many women know won’t happen.

She doesn’t want to be there. Who would? But she’s stepping up and allowing the world a fleeting glimpse of her internal terror, because it’s that important.

I have zero faith in the people who should be taking seriously every word that comes out of her mouth. They don’t care. They’re perfectly willing to appoint to the Supreme Court of the United States a man with more than one accusation against him rather than risk waiting until after the elections this year. God forbid they have to go with a more moderate candidate later because of what might happen in the mid-term elections. They toss around terms like “he said/she said” and brush off the notion that it even matters. They denied Garland his due hearing when appointed by Obama because of pettiness, and are now frothing at the mouth because the man they want has a roadblock in front of him.

No, I don’t think they care.

This isn’t a case of hiring some sketchy twenty-year-old to handle inter-office mail delivery, someone who can easily be fired if it turns out he really does have some noisy skeletons in his closet. This is someone who will sit on the highest court in this country, with the ability to affect change for decades to come. Any accusation should be taken seriously. Anything remotely credible should be examined until there’s no doubt about the outcome. That seat is far too important to rush, far too important to place the wishes of one political party over the other.

Yes, a “he said/she said” incident, when it comes to a Supreme Court appointee, should be taken seriously. And it goes beyond that: one accusation could be construed as he said/she said. Two accusations is enough that those in charge should listen quite a bit more carefully. Three establishes a pattern of behavior that cannot be overlooked. And four? Holy hell.

Yes, there are four. And still, these people who supposedly have the best interests of the country at heart are willing to barrel over everything and rush to appoint their candidate, for no apparent reason other than they want to place party over country—something they damn well admitted to in the past—and care little about the truth.

They are willing to elevate a rapist to the Supreme Court of the United States rather than risk waiting for a more suitable, and possibly moderate, candidate.

Come on. Let that sink in. They are willing to appoint a rapist.

“But he hasn’t been found guilty of anything!” No, he hasn’t. That doesn’t change that the people who are rushing this through don’t care about the facts. They don’t care if he’s guilty or not. They care about appointing their choice to the seat rather than waiting for the facts. They’ll appoint him knowing there’s a good chance that he did, in fact, assault Dr. Ford when he was seventeen. He could admit to them behind closed doors that he did everything he’s accused of, and more, and they’ll still do everything they can to get him into that seat.

No, it doesn’t matter that Ford didn’t report it then. Don’t judge her for not having it in her to go through the ringer of judgment when she, too, was just a teenager. Don’t judge her for being terrified of having to shoulder the blame—something many of us understood far too well in our teen years, that the victim was almost always blamed for something over which they had zero control—and don’t brush it off as boys being boys.

Take a look at your sons. If you’re willing to brush off sexual assault as being no big deal, that it’s something boys just do, consider what you’re teaching them. Then take a look at your daughters, because they’re the ones at risk. Do you really think it’s okay for someone to molest, assault, rape, touch, or torment them for no reason other than “Well, you know, boys will be boys.”

Retire the tired tropes, the lame excuses, and the prejudice against the victims of assault.

Statistically, the number of false accusations in sexual assault cases are so low as to be negligible. Statistically, too, the number of convictions are so low as to be a reason why reporting an assault feels like a waste of time.

Statistically, when a woman levels a charge, you can be pretty sure she’s not lying.

There is literally nothing to be gained from accusing someone of sexual assault, and everything to be lost. When Dr. Ford came forward, she endured death threats serious enough that she had to leave her own home, and that’s not going to end when today’s hearing does. She offered up her safety and sanity and will not benefit from this at all.

Brett Kavanaugh, on the other hand, will get a pat on the back and an “atta boy” from people who believe he’s guilty of the charge, but don’t think that something he did as a teenager should matter. He’ll go on living his life, likely as a Supreme Court Justice.

Wednesday

No wedding pictures yet (let's give them time to share first...) but there is this:

The moment during the rehearsal when the Boy realized I was taking a picture.

The venue was stunningly beautiful. Just a hint of how amazing:

And that is just a tiny taste... it went on and on, one of the nicest places I've ever seen. And the wedding was absolutely beautiful, and yes, I got a little teary-eyed. Kinda hard not to when you see your kid in his happiest-ever moments and know that he truly found The One.

Oh, and the view from our hotel room...

I wasn't thrilled when I found out we were on the 3rd story and there was no elevator, but the stairs didn't give me as many problems as usual, and we had a balcony...with this to look down on. I'd be quite happy to stay there again sometime.

Thursday

On Sunday, they're saying I Do. The Boy and his Much Better Half, who might be the most so-right couple I know, the two who always pop into my head when I hear Ed Sheeran's Perfect come on the radio. I can't begin to tell you how much I love these two, and how grateful I am that she came into his life. He's always been a good man, but damn, y'all, with her he's a good man, and what more could a mother want for her son?

I don't think that I've ever looked forward to something as much as I have this wedding, other than, perhaps, his birth.

And I swear, if anyone stands up to object, I'll get off my asterisk and threaten to cut a beeyotch.

Tuesday

Monday

The last time I had a mango was in 2002. I remember this, because the morning after I’d eaten one, the Spouse Thingy dragged me to the ER because I woke up with my face roughly the size of a basketball, which was a bit uncomfortable and quite disconcerting for him. The consensus in the ER was that I had an allergic reaction, and the mango was the most likely culprit: quit eating mangoes, because the next time the reaction might be quite a bit more severe.

Now, I might not be truly allergic to mango. Not long before I ate that fateful fruit, I was diagnosed with a pituitary tumor which had given me a nice, life-long case of diabetes insipidus, and I’d started taking DDAVP for it. One squirt in each nostril, twice a day.

Turns out I only needed one squirt once a day, before bed. And later, one pill once a day, before bed, and if I have breakthrough the next day, half of another pill. When the meds work too well, I bloat. And often, I feel that bloating in my face before I feel it anywhere else. So my basketball face might have been because of too much DDAVP and not the mango.

But there’s a risk in testing that theory out, and I’m not sure that I want to.

I also want kiwi. I freaking love kiwi. Kiwi does not, however, love me back. The last time I had kiwi was somewhere around 1996. It was only the second time I had it, just enough to know I really, really liked it. The first time, I felt a tingling in my jaw, but surely that was because it was sour. The next time, my mouth itched and my throat felt kind of thick.

So. No more kiwi for me for sure. But I really want one.

I also want pineapple. Pineapple to me is like candy. It’s sweet and wonderful, and I could eat it every freaking day.

Pineapple, on the other hand, does not like me. One bite, and it feels like my stomach is trying to digest itself. The pain just isn’t worth it.

There are a plethora of other fruits, so over the years, when the craving for mango or kiwi or pineapple hits hard, I’ve consoled myself with cherries and raspberries and oranges and pears and plums and bananas...

Yeah.

One by one, those things started hating me, too. Raspberries now cause the same pain that pineapple does. Oranges and other citrus fruit come close. Cherries and pears and plums and bananas cause other discomfort, badly enough that I avoid them now. Well, except bananas. If I spread out the eating of those, every other day, it minimizes the issues.

I’m pretty much left with grapes and strawberries as the fruit that hasn’t attacked me.

The point?

Yeah getting old sucks. I want my damned fruit back. And knees, hips, and a back that doesn’t hurt. I want my metabolism back.

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Doctor Who Quotes

There's something that doesn't make sense. Let's go and poke it with a stick.

We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?

Every time you see them happy, you remember how sad they're going to be. And it breaks your heart. Because what's the point in them being happy now if they're going to be sad later? And the answer is, of course, because they're going to be sad later.

The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant.

Do you know, in nine hundred years of time and space I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important before.

If it’s time to go, remember what you’re leaving. Remember the best. My friends have always been the best of me.